What Have You Been Doing Lately?
by Proteus Unbound
Summary: Following the aftermath of Last Resort, Thirteen does something stupid again, so House confronts her, because it's the right thing to do.


Not mine.

* * *

"…So in conclusion, duckies, _never_ assume that a patient lies if there is no significant evidence."

He glances at their expressions, and is a little disappointed at their reactions. Kutner looks confused, but confusion isn't exactly a rare look on him. Foreman looks annoyed, but again, annoyance is frequent. Briefly he considers a hypocrisy accusation, but dismisses it. Taub has his eyebrows raised; yet again nothing out of the ordinary.

Only Thirteen seems to have gotten the joke, though she doesn't react, opting to simply fuss with her oxygen mask.

He sighs. "8:00 AM sharp tomorrow," he reminds as they got up, "Except for you."

Everyone looked, except Thirteen, who simply sits back down. He grins at the boys. "8:00 AM," he announces, "Don't oversleep."

He escorts them to the door, shutting it firmly as soon as Kutner trips across the threshold, and turns around. Now she has her eyebrows raised. "If this is your way of seducing me, House, remember that I almost died today."

He waves his cane, dismissively. "All part of the job," he says, and then turns serious. Semi-serious, at least. "You bring up a good point, though. You almost died today."

Again, she doesn't react. "Your point is?"

He acts scandalized. "You mean I have to have a point?" She obviously doesn't buy it, so he skips the foreplay. "You almost died last week, too."

"Thanks for the recap, but," she gets up again, "I don't have retrograde amnesia, so if you don't mind—

"Is this some sort of 'leave your mark on society before you die thing'?" he asks, stopping her at the doorway. She turns, looking vaguely annoyed now. "You have Huntington's, so before you die, you have to be Joan of Arc?"

"I'm not—

"You are," he gets up too, facing her. "Doing stupid things, taking stupid risks. Acting like the world is without grunts and orderlies and nurses—

"Yes, because grunts and orderlies and nurses exist _purely_ to do—

"Last week," he says, loudly, "You injected three different, possibly _lethal_ drugs into your body. Slowed your heart, killed your kidneys, and if you had done one more, you would have killed everything else, too."

She sits back down, so he sits, too. "Today," he continues, "You were exposed to a neurotoxin none of us were familiar with in the OR, passed out the first time, rushed back in _again_ to sedate her, almost died _again_—

"I don't want to die," she interrupts.

He huffs in exasperation. "Could've fooled me. You have a degenerative, lethal—

"I _don't_," he stops, half surprised, half annoyed at being interrupted more than once, "Why else do you think I'm participating in Foreman's drug trial?"

He shrugs. "Joan of Arc saved the French at Orleans before being burned at the stake. You want to matter, leave your tiny, narrow print on the face of the planet, so you're doing what you did last week in Cuddy's office, except in a more drawn out and less crazy way."

"I want to _live_," she empathizes, "I want the drug to succeed, or at least slow the symptoms until another cure can be found."

He stares, feeling strangely disappointed. He had thought that she was like him, that she was done, that she had given up on the chorea, the dementia like he had given up on his leg. "When did you become Candide? What happened to the E? The Meth? The Bisexuals Anonymous?"

"It could happen."

He rolls his eyes at this. "Sure, and this is the best of all possible worlds."

"It could happen," she repeats, and he opens his mouth for a "if you say it strongly it will happen" crack, but she doesn't give him the chance. "I could _live_," she says, "But it still doesn't change the fact that while there isn't a Fountain of Youth, life is still short, and I'm still expendable."

He stops for a second, dumbfounded. "I'm usually not confused when you argue with me like this. I thought _you_ were taking the 'life is precious' route."

"I like living," she says, "But if I think that there's something, someone worth giving my life up for, I'll do it."

Now he's more than a little annoyed, more than a little disappointed. "You haven't grown at all. You still think that your life doesn't matter as other people because you're dying, you haven't changed, you've just—

"I am _not_ justifying."

"You _are_," he says, a little louder, standing up, "You still think that just because you're going to die sooner than everyone else that nothing matters, you're still going to take crazy risks, you're still absolutely _terrified_ that—

"Life is short," she interrupts, softer, "but memories, they live on forever." He opens his mouth again, wanting to enlighten her stupidity, her _ignorance_ to the fact that people are selfish, that they don't remember the people who did them favors, they don't _remember_ that people die for them, but she continues, "And even if I _wasn't_ dying, I would still think that, so there's not point in trying to change my mind."

"You're an _idiot_," he says.

She doesn't flinch. "You know, I think I've heard that before. Can I go now?"

He shakes his head. "All life is sacred," he muses, "except for yours, then?"

She doesn't respond.

"False optimism doesn't look good on you. I could fire you again."

"You won't."

He stares at her, and knows that she's probably right. "So you're really serious about this thing? You know, compassion, unconditional love?"

She winces. "It sounds incredibly naïve and idealistic when you say it like that."

He shrugs. "Doesn't change the fact that that's what it is. But," he brightens a bit, "At least you're not Cameron yet. She would have jumped on how distasteful I just made her favorite things sound like."

She doesn't respond, but then again, she never does, so he sighs. "You have a God complex," he points out.

She shrugs. "Most doctors do."

"You more than others," he replies, as a sudden, _terrifying_ thought grips him. "You're not going to start sleeping with Wilson, are you? Because if you do, and you two start a Mother Teresa club or something, I really _will_ fire you."

She smiles. He shoots a reproachful glare in response, and then bats the cane at her. "Get outta here."


End file.
